


After the Fall

by topswearing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:09:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topswearing/pseuds/topswearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John does not cope with Sherlock's death well and attempts suicide. MAJOR angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've ever written. Just got a bit obsessed with Sherlock so read a bunch of fanfic and wanted to have a go myself. Thought I'd post what I have so far to see if there's anything I could be doing better (answer: most definitely). I know that it's a bit all over the place so I'd really appreciate some feedback as to what specifically I'm doing wrong. Would also be good to know if there's stuff that good and I should keep doing? 
> 
> Ach, I'm blathering now so I'll shut up!

I have to do this for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And for John. Moriarty’s gone but his network remains. I have to bring it down; there’s no way that Moriarty would have been so lax as to not have a back-up plan in the event that I somehow survived. I have to go; it is the rational decision. I cannot let emotions weaken me. 

The urge to call out to John as I watched him at my graveside this morning almost overwhelmed me. I cannot let that happen again. Logically, I know he’ll be fine. I know he is, or was, fond of me. It was a shock to see the state he was in nonetheless. Knowing I could halt his grief by simply announcing my presence tempted me to throw the plan out of the window. I so much do not want my only friend to suffer. He will get over it, though. John has other friends, people upon whom he can rely. For that I am glad. If the roles were reversed, I think I would be incapable of overcoming his death. I would try to bury myself in cases, but it would be so different without him beside me. I would probably allow old habits to resurface and get pulled into that world again. John will be okay, though and I can leave knowing that. It’s time to get to work. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It’s been two months since Sherlock jumped. I can’t seem to pull myself out of the stupor in which I find myself. I try to make an effort. I am reassuring when Mrs Hudson phones to ask if I’m okay. I invent extravagant excuses when Lestrade invites me for a drink down the pub so that he does not suspect the truth. And really, these are the only people who bother with me. Harry stopped bothering soon after the funeral, no doubt enmeshed in her own issues. Mycroft, well Anthea, used to phone at regular intervals, but I could not face his calls and they soon stopped. The lack of demands on me allows me to maintain a socially acceptable mask when required. The rest of the time I am free to wallow in numbness. I know I’m being melodramatic. I know it’s unhealthy and needs to stop. I just can’t. 

I tried to return to Baker Street after the funeral. I knew I would be unable to continue living there, not with the memories of Sherlock seeping through every pore of the place. I did need to pack my belongings, though. I ran up the stairs trying to trick myself into walking through the door before I lost the courage but came to a stand-still right outside the door willing myself to open it. My arm did not comply with my brain’s request. I think it was some sort of self-preservation kicking in. Subconsciously, I had acknowledged I would be unable to cope with seeing everything as Sherlock had left it, awaiting his return. I felt light-headed and sat at the top of the stairs to stop my legs from buckling from underneath me. Mrs Hudson appeared and made the journey towards me warily as if I was a skittish animal. She sat next to me in silence waiting for me to speak. 

“I can’t go in there,” I admitted.

Her arm stretched around my shoulders and I leant into her. Mrs Hudson was crying and I found myself envious that I could not do the same. Even now, I have not shed one tear over Sherlock. The grief just won’t come out properly. It scares me that it’s building up inside and I know that one day it will bubble over and I’ll lose control. I’ve seen it happen before; comrades who bottled up their experiences from Afghanistan, until everything came crashing out. I’ve thought about seeing a therapist or psychiatrist, but I have no wish to pick over the nature of my relationship with Sherlock. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

How much longer? –MH  
As long as required. –SH  
Why?-SH  
Don’t ask silly questions. – MH

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I have no idea why that was a silly question, but I will not give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking him. One could assume that he has no experience of working with agents undercover. Texting for idle chit-chat? I suppose he has just remembered he has a brother and wanted reassurance that I am still alive. That, or someone up top wants progress on the operation. There’s no point in me dwelling on the strangeness of it. Boring. I need to focus on other matters. 

Half of Moriarty’s network is gone. By all accounts, my next target is a shrewd man and I will need all my wits about me to deal with him. This is all taking so much longer than I had imagined it would. I wonder what John is doing right now. It is about 8 in the evening in the UK. On a date? Possibly working a late shift? Maybe he is just sitting in the flat watching rubbish television. I miss watching television. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It occurred to me this morning that I should be penniless. I haven’t been into work for six months now, not since everything happened. I didn’t phone and tell them; I just didn’t turn up. No-one’s contacted me to ask why. I didn’t have much in my bank account to start with. All those taxi journeys around London chasing after the bad guys with…him. Anyway, all those taxi journeys which he expected me to pay did not have a healthy effect on my savings. It came to me this morning when a couple of serious-looking ‘final demand’ letters came through the door for this flat’s previous occupier. I can admit to myself, although not to anyone else, that I am barely coping. I scarcely move nor eat nor sleep. I certainly haven’t been paying my rent or bills. 

I supposed I should look into it. I could not remember my internet banking password and I really didn’t have the energy to be phoning the bank. I realised it had been a couple of days since I had eaten properly so I went to buy some food and got a mini-statement from the cash machine whilst out. There’s £42, 000 in my account and it looks like the bills have all been set out to come out of that. Six months ago, £50, 000 had been deposited. I know it was Mycroft; there is literally no-one else it could have been. I need to thank him. Part of me knows I should be offended, but if it wasn’t for him, I’d have financial troubles now as well as everything else. There is no way I can speak to him; he’s too much a reminder of his brother. I’ll text, though. I owe him that. Well, that and fifty grand. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Just checked my bank account. Thanks. –JW  
How are you, John? – MH  
I’m fine, thanks. – JW  
I know you’re lying. – MH  
Then why ask at all? – JW  
You need to talk. – MH  
Please leave me alone. I just wanted to say thanks. - JW  
I don’t mean you need to talk to me but talk to someone. I am sorry. - MH  
What are you sorry for? He was your brother, not mine.–JW  
But I am sorry, John. – MH 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I finally broke down today. Lestrade came over and wouldn’t leave until I opened the door. I stayed silent and pretended I wasn’t in, praying that he would go away. Somehow he knew I was at home, though. He shouted and hammered the door until I finally acquiesced and opened it, only for him to stumble back in shock.

“My God, John. What have you done to yourself?”

“What?”

Lestrade grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me in front of a mirror; I hardly recognised myself. The body in the mirror was way too thin. My hair was unwashed, greasy and in need of a cut. Dark shadows emphasised the bags under my eyes and my beard was a straggly mess. I pulled away from Lestrade in shame, anger rising within me that I had allowed him to see me like this. I tried to be nonchalant. 

“I’m fine, Greg. Nothing a meal and a haircut won’t fix. How’re things at the Yard?”

“You need to snap out of this. It’s nearly been a year” he murmured. 

I ignored his words, desperate to change the subject. 

“Anderson still doing your head in?” 

“John.”  
“How about Molly? Have you seen her recently because…”

“JOHN!”

“What?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Mate, I know that you miss Sherlock. I do too, but life goes on. You can’t carry on like this.”

I stayed silent. I could feel the emotion welling up inside and I desperately tried to quash it. 

“Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this. John, are you listening to me? He was…”

“Don’t say his name.”

“You have to accept what happened. Sherlock…”

I am so ashamed of the way I reacted. Another mention of his name caused me to fly into an uncontrollable fury. I slammed my hands on the table in front of me and shoved everything off it. I turned towards Lestrade, fists raised, and started grappling with him. His hands gripped my shoulders tightly and I struggled against him. It was like I was disconnected from myself. Some small part of me was watching what I was doing and was urging me to stop, but I was beyond being able to control myself. Eventually, I just started crying. Poor Lestrade didn’t know what to do. 

Hours later Lestrade left, not before promising that he would be in contact soon. I saw no point in arguing with him. If a friend of mine had just acted in the same way, I would not be taking ‘no’ for an answer. He probably thinks I’m mad. Maybe I am; I’m certainly not acting in a normal manner. Why can’t I just get over it? 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It’s the anniversary today; I can’t do this anymore. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It’s time to come back. – MH  
Impossible. - SH  
I do not take this lightly, I want the job finished as much as you do. – MH  
It is for your own good. – MH  
It will all have been for nothing if I come back now. – SH  
It will all have been for nothing if you don’t come back now. Danger is afoot for your friend. – MH  
Danger? I’m preventing the danger sorting out things here. You can deal with whatever’s happening there. Friend is also capable. – SH  
Give me one week. Surely you can keep him safe for that long? – SH  
????? – SH  
One week. – MH 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It worries me that Mycroft felt he needed to contact me about John being in danger. It must be serious for him to be calling me back. I am so close to finishing things up here that I really cannot leave now. I have to believe that I am doing the right thing. Mycroft has many resources at his disposal. He will be able to cope with whatever is happening in London. Why would anybody be going after John, though? Is it something to do with Moriarty? No, it cannot be. I have meticulously been trying up all the loose ends; there is only one left. Aggrieved client? Something to do with the army? Oh, what is the point? I cannot deduce anything from this far away. John will be fine. I must try not to think of him. 

At the beginning of this operation, I would find my thoughts drifting to think about him frequently. I was rather surprised. I am not accustomed to missing people, probably because John is the only one who has ever put up with me long enough to become a friend. If I thought about him for too long, I would become overwhelmed by the longing to be back with him. It meant I missed important clues so I made a conscious effort to banish him from my mind. It is more vital than ever that I concentrate fully on the task at hand. One more week. One week. Then I can get back to Baker Street and we can get rid of whatever danger exists together. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>  
Greg,  
I know I don’t need to explain why I’m doing this. You already know. I can’t live like this forever. It’s been over a year and it’s not getting any better. Please don’t come looking for me. You won’t find me. You’ve been a better friend to me than I deserve. You’re so good a friend that I know you’d have half of London out looking for me if …

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Where are you? Evac team on standby. – MH  
What’s happened? – SH  
John is in intensive care.. – MH  
Get a plane to Minsk-1. Will he survive? – SH  
Will he survive? – SH  
Just get back here. –MH  
Mycroft. - SH  
Gunshot to the chest: punctured lung and internal bleeding. – MH  
Is he going to die? – SH  
They’re working on him now. – MH  
Which means his chance of survival is low and you’re trying to protect me. Who was it? Why? –SH  
We can go through it when you get here. –MH  
Now. –SH  
When you get here. –MH  
Mycroft, please. – SH  
It was a suicide attempt. -MH  
No. Foul play. John would never do that. Need more details. - SH  
Believe it, brother. I had to intervene but played my hand badly. – MH  
You’re not always right. You must have missed something. – SH  
There is no case to solve here. The quicker you accept that, the better. – MH  
Sherlock? – MH 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Just keep moving. Get to the airport. One foot in front of the other. Fucking hell. Find a cab. Get there now. Oh my God. Must keep moving. Breathe. This cannot be happening. Get to London. Have to get back. What the fuck? Shit, John. Please. Don’t think. Move. Move. Get to the plane. Just get to the plane. John. John. John. Stop. Quickest route to airport? Focus. Oh my God. John. GET A GRIP. Fastest way to Minsk-1. Get to Minsk-1. Mycroft must be wrong. Get to the airport. Why is this happening? Suicide? John. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Shit. Pain in chest. Who am I? Where am I? Argh. Concentrate. Concentrate. Steady beeping in background. The stink of antiseptic. Hospital. Hospital? Why would…? Oh my God, Sherlock’s dead. The gun, my note, Mycroft. The shame. What have I done? Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. More pain. Concentrate. Go back to sleep. Can’t cope with this right now. Go back to sleep. Sherlock. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

John looked so small in the hospital bed. I craned my neck, face pressed up against the window in the door of his room whilst strong-armed buffoons held me back from entering. Mycroft had stationed security outside so that I could not get to him. I started shouting just as Mycroft walked around the corner. He had put on some weight and had some extra lines around his eyes, but was otherwise the same old Mycroft. The same self-satisfied grin that came with knowing he was in control of any situation that might arise. I stopped grappling with the guards. 

“Brother. How nice to see you. I trust your trip went well,” he said. 

There was no time to play his silly games. He was obviously aware of what I would want to know and I had a dreadful feeling that he was delaying from telling me something I did not want to hear. 

“Just tell me if he’s going to live.”

I furiously tried to read his face for any clue of what was to come. 

“He’ll live, Sherlock. The surgery went well.”

My knees buckled from underneath me out of sheer relief. Mycroft gestured towards one of the security guards to hoist me back up. I wiped at my face trying to hide the tears that had appeared. I hated Mycroft seeing me out of control. To be fair, Mycroft did not seem to be enjoying it in this instance either. 

“Of course, you know you won’t be able to see him yet,” he said icily. 

What? That was not happening, I thought. All I knew is that I had to be as close to him as possible. It may not have been rational, but I did not care. It clicked that this was what Mycroft was trying to stall.

“Not possible. I have to be in there,” I said trying to gauge John’s current state through the window. 

“I phrased that wrong. He cannot see you yet.”

“Look, I know it will come as a shock, but…”

“A shock? Sherlock, he thinks you’re dead, for God’s sake. He’ll think he’s gone mad if you’re there when he wakes up. Try using that brain of yours for once in your life, will you?”

I took stock for a moment trying to surmise why Mycroft would even care if John thought he was mad or not. He gestured towards for the guards to give us some privacy.

“I care because you care, Sherlock. John has had a difficult time recently and I’m sorry to say that you’re the cause of that. You need to be prepared that he might not want to see you.”

Mycroft was obviously choosing his words carefully and I pondered on what he had said. He was trying to protect me in his role as big brother. This was not about me, though. It was about John and whatever happened, I would just have to live with it. 

“I still have to go in there,” I countered. 

“Sherlock, don’t force my hand and make me…”

“This argument is pointless. I am going in there. I can and will cause problems to direct your attention elsewhere if you…”

“Stop and think what is best for John,” he broke in with a glint of triumph in his eyes.

I knew rationally that he was right. I was not what was best for John in this situation, but I needed to be with him nevertheless.

“Why did you call me back here so urgently if you did not want me to see him?” I asked. 

“It was touch and go for a while,” he ruminated. “I did what I had to do.”

I glanced once more through the window.

“Now I’m doing what I have to do. Don’t try to stop me, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft sighed and gave me an almost imperceptible nod. “Just come and find me if it all goes wrong. Don’t try to deal with it on your own. I do not want a re-enactment of five years ago.”

He turned and walked away slowly. I was free to enter the room. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I knew that there was somebody in the room with me. I could feel a hand holding onto my wrist. At first I thought it was one of the medical staff taking my pulse, but several minutes later, the hand was still there. A visitor, then. I had no wish to face anybody at that moment so I kept my eyes closed and attempted to sink back into unconsciousness. I stirred trying to make myself comfortable and suddenly there was no hand on my wrist anymore. Strange. I wondered who it might be until curiosity finally got the better of me. I began to concentrate on waking up. I could hear the steady beeping sound of the heart monitor. 

“John.”

I knew that voice. I was dreaming, then. I tried to make his voice appear again, but it didn’t. Then the pain was back, the pain I had been trying to escape. It eclipsed everything else as I felt panic welling up inside me and heard the beeping of the heart monitor going crazy. Medical alarms started ringing and I heard people bustling into the room. I must have been injected with a sedative because my panic quickly turned into the overwhelming urge to sleep. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I was terrified. Mycroft said that he would be okay and I could see nothing in his medical notes to indicate that he would not pull through. I just could not shake the fear that gripped me. Although I could view the heart monitor, I had to reassure myself when I first entered the room. I wrapped my hand around his wrist to feel myself that his pulse was still beating. I sat there willing, almost praying, for him to wake up. 

When John began to stir out of his sleep, my hand shot from his wrist automatically at risk of being caught. I had not realised I was still holding onto him until that moment. I could not help but call his name, but that was utterly stupid of me. It obviously distressed him to hear me. My heart was in my throat and I completely froze when the alarms started ringing, signalling that something was wrong. Nurses and doctors ran into the room and injected him with a sedative. 

There is no clock in the room, but judging by the darkness outside, it has been at least six hours since it last looked like he was going to wake up. The lump in my throat and the dread in the pit of my stomach remains, but the adrenaline has long gone. My damned body keeps making me drift into sleep, but I must stay awake. 

I texted Mycroft to get John’s laptop brought to the hospital so I had more data to figure out what has happened here. John has lost an inordinate amount of weight. His hair has thinned and contains much more grey. Deep lines have appeared on his face and he has several days beard growth. He has been chewing on the skin on his fingers. His limp must be back because his shoes have worn down unevenly. Everything points to what Mycroft said about suicide being true. I must be missing something. I need him to wake up and tell me what has happened so I can fix it. It has to be fixable. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I honestly thought I had had a mental breakdown when I saw Sherlock sat by my hospital bed. I considered him numbly as if he were a foreign object, my brain trying to catch up with what I was seeing; Sherlock slumped in a chair asleep. When the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on me, I resorted to a state of hysteria; laughing and crying simultaneously. I stared at the ceiling above me trying to figure out whether I would want the apparition to still be there when I looked back towards the chair. 

“I’ve fucking cracked. This is it,” I gibbered to myself. 

My hallucination stood up and appeared in my line of sight. 

“You’re not mad.”

“I’m seeing a dead man. Of course I’m fucking mad… Great, now I’m talking to a dead man too.”

“I’m real. I staged it. You’re not mad, John.”

I scoffed.

“I’m not dead, I’m here.”

“You don’t even sound like him.”

“Just believe me, you idiot.”

“That’s better.” I laughed, still crying. 

“John, would you just stop it?” The apparition pulled down the sleeves of its suit jackets and awkwardly wiped the tears from my face. “It’s perfectly simple. I pretended to die to fool Moriarity.” 

Something snapped inside a quantum of hope began welling up that this could be real; I stamped it down as hard as I could. 

“If you’re real, tell me something my subconscious would not know.”

“Moriarty had snipers trained on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He was going to kill you all unless I killed myself. There was no other way around it.”  
“Something I can prove is true.”

“This morning I was in Minsk, here is a napkin from the café from which I bought a coffee. Here is my phone. You can use the search engine to check the café exists.”  
Still, I could not believe it.

“Nurse!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “Nurse!”

A petite woman entered the room looking a little startled, no doubt at the panic in my voice.

“Do you need something, Dr Watson? Are you in pain?” she asked.

“I know you’re going to think…” I started, but the apparition interjected.

“He was just going to ask you for some water. Isn’t that right, John?”

“Ermm…yes.”

“Surely it’s part of your job to not let your patients die from dehydration.”

The nurse pointedly ignored Sherlock. “Well, there’s a reservoir down the corridor. I’m sure your visitor here wouldn’t mind getting you some,” she huffed. “Give me a shout if you need anything, I’ll be around.”

“Really, John. You can’t go asking medical professionals whether they can see people right in front of you. They’ll lock you away. 

A tsunami of emotion washed over me. This was real. The nurse had seen him, interacted with him. And he had obviously done something to annoy her, as was typical of him, because she seemed to hate him already.

“Come closer,” I said carefully, extending out my arm. He moved towards me and I grabbed, pulling him down roughly so I could be sure that he was actually there. The utter relief I felt quickly turned into an all-encompassing rage. With all my strength and through much pain, I swung my other arm and punched him hard in the face. 

“Where the fuck have you been until now?” I demanded. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The punch was a surprise. I removed some tissues from the box next to the bed and staunched the blood running from my nose. I sat back down in my chair, pulling it back and out of John’s reach whilst watching his face, trying to figure out how much to tell him. 

What a fool I was to fall asleep. John clearly thought he was hallucinating. I did not know what to do or say. There is no precedent, no data available on how one should act in the event one comes back from the dead. I just wanted him to stop crying; I could not bear to see those tears streaming down his face. I was close to crying myself; I barely managed to control it. It would not have helped John believe I was real if I started acting so out of character. I reeled back the emotions that were coursing through me and focused on logic and getting him to believe me. 

“I’m waiting for an answer, Sherlock.”

I chose to tell him the bare facts and nothing more. How Moriarty had set me up, how the fall was staged and a brief explanation the two years it had taken to break down his network. He did not need to hear all the gruesome details. There was a long pause before John responded.

“Why couldn’t you have told me? Let me know you were okay?” he asked. I could hear the emotion thick in his voice and I attempted to swallow down the lump in my own throat.  
“It was vital that everybody believed that I was dead. One whiff that I was still alive and you’d all have been dead.”

“Good to know I couldn’t be trusted.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I scoffed. “They will have been monitoring you; if you acted in a way they weren’t anticipating…You’re a bad liar, John. You needed to believe it.”

“And you’re a bloody terrific liar, which is why I don’t know whether to believe you when you say there was no other way. Another way that didn’t involve you going off gallivanting leaving me to grieve for you for TWO FUCKING YEARS!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for causing you any suffering. Trust me when I say that if there had been any other way that avoided that; avoided all of this, I would have done it.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“Next time I go gallivanting, I’ll be sure to invite you, instead,” I said, forcing a smile on my face in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. 

John merely continued to fix his stare upon me as if trying to decide what to do next. He opened his mouth to say something, but a doctor came bustling into the room seemingly oblivious to the dense atmosphere. She studied the monitor for and added some notes to the clipboard at the end of the bed. 

“Right Doctor Watson,” she said. “I’m going to have to give you a sedative. It seems there’s been too much excitement this afternoon and you need to give your body a chance to recover.”

“There really is no need, I…” John started. 

“Doctors are always the worst patients, don’t you think? Look, you’ll soon be fighting fit again but you need the rest to get there.” 

“With due respect, I’m hardly going to be able to do much apart from rest whilst I’m restricted to this bed, am I?”

“It’s only to help with the pain, I’ll just…”

“I SAID NO!”. This was not like John and before I could set my mask, my eyebrow shot into the air. “Sorry,” he continued, catching a hold of himself. “Sorry, I do not want to be sedated.”

“If that was an attempt to make me believe you do not need to be calmed, Doctor Watson, I’m afraid you’ve failed.” The doctor viewed John determinedly and before I knew what I was doing, I intervened. 

“Could you give us a minute please, Doctor?” She remained unmoved so I got up and ushered her towards the door. “We have an important matter to discuss, you may return in a few minutes”. 

As I pushed her out of the room, I muttered a thank you and spun back around to face John once again. 

“You know, you’ll get out of here a lot quicker if you play along with the medical professionals.” A thought hit me. “Assuming that’s what you want, of course.” 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A terror gripped me when the doctor announced that I was to be sedated and I ended up shouting at the poor woman. Forcing myself to calm down, I tried to pinpoint the reason I was so afraid and although it was pathetic, I had to admit to myself that I was afraid I would re-awaken to find Sherlock had left. Obviously, I could not tell him that. Sherlock had managed to get rid of the doctor and was expecting me to explain why I was refusing a sedative, though. I had to say something. 

“Of course I want to leave. I just don’t feel like a need to be sedated at the moment. I’m a medical man, I can make that judgement.” I said. 

There was a long silence before Sherlock finally decided to speak. 

“By virtue of how you came to be in this room, I think your judgement is impaired. Wouldn’t you say?” His voice was barely above a whisper and he sounded exhausted. A wave of guilt washed over me and I had to look away from his dejected staring. We were not having this conversation.

“Get out,” I said whilst my whole being screamed at him not to leave me again. Sherlock did not move a muscle, merely sat in his chair with his hands in the prayer position beneath his nose. 

“Stop trying to figure out how best to placate me and get out. I mean it.”

Silence. 

“Sod off back to bloody Minsk or wherever the hell you’ve been.” I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing as I began to feel the emotion about to burst forth again.  
I heard the scrape of a chair being moved towards the bed and his hand grasp mine firmly. I snapped open my eyes in shock but did not pull my hand away. 

“Don’t make me leave. Please.” 

I did not trust myself to speak; I returned the grip on my hand in answer. This was a vulnerability to Sherlock that I had never seen before and I began to wonder something had happened to him to bring it about. 

Before I could ponder on it too much, the doctor returned to the room and asked whether I had seen sense yet. I allowed myself to be sedated safe in the knowledge that Sherlock would be there when I woke up. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I was just so tired. I should have complied with his request that I leave him to his own thought but, selfishly, I could not bring myself to do it. Had I not been so exhausted, I could have convinced him to tell the story that needs to be told. Now the horrific conversation has been postponed. It is not something that can be ignored; he cannot repress whatever’s driven him to the brink. I cannot go through life not knowing what pushed him there either; it would mean not knowing what preventatives to put in place in order to stop it happening again. 

Basically, I crumbled and asked no more from him that to allow me to stay. I think it may have been all either of us were capable of doing at that moment in time. Presence alone was sufficient after the interminable absence. 

TBC


End file.
